


Couerier

by gardnerhill



Series: Lost and Found [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Feels, M/M, Prompt Fic, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7519934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another missive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Couerier

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2016 July Watson's Woes Promptfest prompt #18, **From "Handwritten" by The Gaslight Anthem:** _And with this pen, I thee wed / From my heart to your distress_

He collapsed in the doorway.

“Sir? Sir! Oh mister, you all right?” Strong young arms (far too young, yet another symptom of this war) went around him, tried to lift him up. The post-boy’s strong Sussex accent was laced with fear. “You ain’t never even opened it!”

“Didn’t open the other one,” the old man croaked. He was shaking, and tears rolled down his face. His heart was going wild, trying to escape his chest, beating as it had not in months. “I couldn’t.”

His walking-stick was pressed into his left hand (his right hand still clutching the letter, the _letter_ ), and he rose to his feet like an elderly elephant, refusing to relinquish his missive. Into the house, his chair beside the other. The lad went to fetch him a glass of water.

Fool. Fool a thousand times over, old senile fool. He’d conjectured without all the data, made conclusions before all the facts were before him. The facts that lay sealed and never opened in the yellow telegram that had stilled his heart a season ago. Now he knew what lay inside that wretched thing - _Missing_.

He opened this one, shaking like a sapling. He blinked away the rising glass before his eyes and read the familiar, beloved script. Dated, a week ago. The Red Cross station in Calais.

Separated from the station during the bombardment. Shelter at a farmhouse. Lying low, then making his way to the coast looking for his unit. Repositioned well behind the front lines, a day’s journey from home. Safe. Alive. His.

And no damned forgery nor cruel prank – not with that opening:

_I owe you a thousand apologies, dearest chap._


End file.
